Mags' War, Part 1
by thankyoufinnick
Summary: After her stroke, Mags isn't expecting to live to see the revolution. Finnick is prepared to pay any price for her life, even if it means marrying a Capitolite and never seeing Mags, Annie, or District Four again. President Snow is deciding on a punishment for District Four's transgressions. Along comes Katniss Everdeen, to turn everyone's plans upside down. Sequel to Mags' Weapon.
1. Chapter 1

This is the sequel to _Mags' Weapon_. You'll need to have read that first. I'll wait...

If you've already read _Mags' Weapon_ , but you read it before June 2017, you'll want to reread chapters 4 and especially 5, which I rewrote substantially.

Okay! If you've made it this far, this is the beginning of an 8-part canon-divergent AU that, like _Mags' Weapon_ , ignores virtually everything about _Mockingjay_ , including plot, backstory, and characterization.

It'll take a while to post all 50 or so chapters, but this is a finished work, no need to worry about it being abandoned. You can expect one chapter every Friday night for a while; then I'm expecting to pick up the pace.

Now without further ado, let the several hundred thousand words of Finnick fic begin.

* * *

Finnick takes the octopus out of his suitcase, then he puts it back in. The cavernous space inside dwarfs the tiny driftwood carving, but without it, the suitcase has nothing to hold.

He has no excuse for bringing anything practical to the Capitol. Can he get away with something sentimental like this octopus? Trying to decide, Finnick traces his fingertips along the seven and a half tentacles, two lopsided eyes, and aborted attempt at suction cups on one tentacle.

Annie was planning to throw it out and try again, but Finnick fell in love with it instantly, declared it a victor of the Octopus Games, and started it doing a wobbly dance in his hands. While she was bent over laughing, he pocketed it, angling it away from her snatching hands.

 _"Don't show that to anyone!" Annie ordered, outraged._

 _"Come on, I want something that reminds me of laughing with you." She hesitated, and Finnick urged, "It's just for me, I promise."_

 _Annie narrowed her eyes but let it go. "All right, but when I figure out how to carve an octopus that looks like an octopus, I'm making you take that one too. And show it to people."_

She never did. Finnick made too big a fuss over the damaged one being perfect.

Now he's cradling it again, trying to figure out whether bringing it will be too suspicious.

Maybe if he lies about where it came from. _That?_ he imagines himself saying to Dahlia when they're married. _I've had it since I was a kid._

 _It has a certain district charm,_ she acknowledges politely. They say no more about it. Eventually, it falls behind the cabinet, where it's swept up by an Avox and cast into a dustbin.

Finnick takes the octopus out again, completely at a loss. He never understood district tokens before this. They always seemed like a distraction. Who would choose sentiment over survival?

But never before has he left District Four without expecting to see it again. He's torn between wanting something to keep him from being alone in the Capitol, and not wanting to let _them_ touch anything that belongs here.

His trident, for instance. Finnick knows his fans will eat up the moment when he steps off the train holding it, and that's a photo op he doesn't have the option of turning down. So it's lying on the bed above the suitcase.

If he doesn't bring the octopus, though, then he'll only ever have a trident to keep him from being all-Capitol.

Finnick finally puts the octopus back in its drawer.

It's only a stand-in for his real dilemma, anyway. How is he going to break the news to Annie? She thinks they're home free, because Mags is here and in better shape than anyone had the right to expect.

Finnick, though, knows that sneaking into the Capitol out of season is one thing, easily overlooked with a little money in the right hands. But Finnick tugging on his network of contacts and commandeering an impressive array of resources on no notice will have Snow lying awake at night wondering what Finnick's capable of, if Finnick doesn't do something, now.

He did his best to make his stay in the Capitol look innocent on camera. Now he's quietly packing his bags at home and preparing to move there permanently, hoping Snow will see that he knows better than to try to get away with anything.

 _There are worse marriages I could make,_ Finnick tries telling his shaking hands. _I always knew any marriage I ended up in would be arranged, and I'd count myself lucky if it was arranged by Mags and not Snow. I never minded before._

'Before', of course, was before Annie. Annie, who's finally letting him live with her.

But if losing Mags and Annie is the price he has to pay for saving Mags, then he'll do what he has to do. He always does.

 _If you don't pay the price, they will. You've got currency as a high-profile victor, maybe enough to absorb the punishment for this infraction. Snow just wants obedience. That's all he wants. Submit before he asks, and maybe District Four will be safe._

The revolution planning can carry on without him. He may have to accept that moving to the Capitol without a fight will be his last contribution.

And what if Mags is right, and the war breaks out sooner rather than later, and he's in the Capitol?

Finnick can't concentrate a moment longer. With his suitcase still open and empty, he flies out of his house. Sprinting down the street to Mags' place, desperate to put his head in Annie's lap.

He's so intent on his goal that, when he reaches Mags' front door, he almost crashes into Annie coming out. Both her arms are full with bags.

"Annie?" Finnick freezes. "Where-"

"I'm sorry." She stares straight ahead without looking at him. "I have to live alone. I tried." Annie pushes past him down the porch stairs, on a single-minded mission to get home. "I'm sorry."

Finnick knows her in this mood, knows if he lets her go, she'll do whatever she needs to do, and let him wrap her in his arms in a day or two. It still breaks him, every time.

Now he's at Mags' house, with nowhere else to go. At a loss, he opens the door and staggers in, not even looking where he's going. He curses when he trips over her spare cane, belatedly remembering that they'd rearranged everything.

Mags is lying in bed in the living room. Her eyes open when he comes in to check on her.

"You okay?"

She nods.

"Annie tell you she's moving out?" Finnick shoves his hands into his pockets, physically hauling himself back from hovering.

Mags nods again. Her eyes close.

"I see. Well. I'll be...upstairs. If you need anything."

With that, he goes back to the room that used to be his and Annie's and starts pacing. It was easier to go down to the academy or to the sea when he knew Annie was here for Mags. But he has to get used to leaving Mags on her own.

 _Let Annie go. Let Mags go. Do the responsible thing, and live with it._

* * *

With the water from the shower head pouring down over him, Finnick stares blankly at the bar of soap in his hand, trying to remember if he's scrubbed down yet. Did he do it on autopilot while compulsively replaying the images of his future in the Capitol? He has no idea how long he's been standing here.

Is he losing time? He thinks maybe he hasn't used the soap yet, because he's feeling the urge to grab the washcloth and start in, but he's afraid of that too.

Finnick's always sworn he'll never start trying to scrub his skin off, and so far he's held himself to that promise. His body is his, it's a tool, and it serves him well. There's no shame in it. One good rubdown, make sure to get all the nooks and crannies, and stop. If he's somewhere where he genuinely needs more work, that's what stylists are for.

But if he really has been standing here motionless all this time, wondering why Annie moved out and whether he can promise to do better if she tells him what he did wrong, then he needs to clean up. What _did_ he do wrong?

 _You're exhausting Mags. And it's exhausting me to try to deflect your intensity._

Maybe he should move out too. He's not stupid, he knows Mags is having to make up work to keep him busy.

But soon he's going to be living with Dahlia, and he'll be lucky if he's allowed anywhere near Mags once a year. And if anything happens to Mags and Annie has to mentor with...who? Donn? Rudder? There'll be _nothing_ he can do.

Mags will ask him to move out if he's too much to handle, won't she? She's never had a problem being blunt.

And here he is, still with no idea where in the showering process he is. Finnick stares blankly down, trying to figure it out. The washcloth's wet, but where he's got it hanging, it would be wet anyway.

At least there's no reason to suspect a hidden camera here in Mags' bath. He's never been sure about his own.

Finnick's hand clenches convulsively, and the soap goes flying with a crash to the bottom of the tub. Cursing, he tries to grab it, but it slips between his fingers and goes sliding down behind him to the drain. Now he's kneeling and feeling around blindly, trying to pretend the stinging in his eyes is from the water.

Trust Mags to have the same plain soap cakes you'll find anywhere in this district, Finnick thinks irrelevantly. He can't get away with anything less than twenty bottles, even here, or someone will complain.

Hands jerking as he pulls up the soap, Finnick tells himself to get it together. Pretty soon he won't have the luxury of a private shower.

Finish here, let himself scrub exactly _once_ just in case he hasn't already, and go see if Mags—no, Annie—no, Rudder—needs anything.

* * *

 _It's dark enough,_ Finnick tells himself as he settles in on Annie's porch. No one will see him.

He won't go in, but he doesn't want to go too far from Mags tonight, and it's not like he's going to sleep. So he might as well sit here.

From here, you can see Mags' house, but that's not the real reason he picked this spot. He can hear Annie moving around inside, and he just wants to pretend. And maybe he wants to sit outside for a while, drink in the Village before he has to leave.

Annie's house, Mags' house...he passed Rudder's on the way here. The light's off, which tells Finnick Rudder hasn't gotten back from the academy yet.

There are no lights anywhere in the Village, in fact, though he can see some outside. Finnick glances up at the sky, but it's a gleaming white, typical for this time of year. Too foggy for stars.

He's heard that there are places outside the bright nightlife of the Capitol where you can go to watch the stars on a clear night. Dahlia will probably want to take him. If she hasn't had her hovercraft completely confiscated, maybe he can even find out what the stars look like from the air.

Finnick knows he needs to come up with things to look forward to. That's how he's survived every encounter with his clients, no matter how unpleasant. He always finds something he can enjoy, even if it's just an ego trip. Resentment is a luxury he can't afford.

Stars, then. And the timing is good, Finnick tells himself, trying to believe it. Now he won't spend the rest of his life feeling like his marriage kept him from living with Annie. Now he knows that's not an option. And maybe it's better that he be forced to leave, so he can't resent Annie, not even a little bit, for not letting him live with her. This way, he can just remember the good times. When he lets himself remember his life before at all.

A light flickers on across the street. Probably Mags getting dinner. He'll stop in later tonight, but he's trying to give her some space.

Finnick has never thought about the arrangements in the Village before. There are some three dozen houses, most of them empty, and everyone's pretty well spaced out. It never occurred to him to wonder why he ended up in a house so far from Mags. He figured the Capitol made these choices. But then Mags insisted on putting Annie close to her.

Which makes Finnick wonder...did she need a break, nine years ago?

He's been sitting here this whole time listening to the sounds coming from within the house, pretending he's inside, so when the door opens behind him, he doesn't immediately react. Until he hears Annie yelp, and then he whips around to a banging door.

 _Shit. Shit!_ He was trying to leave her alone, but now he has to say something. "Annie!" he shouts through the closed door, hoping she can hear him through it. "It's just me! It's just Finnick!"

Nothing. Should he open the door, stick his head in, and make sure she doesn't think it's a Peacekeeper? Or leave, let her sort it out, and explain the next time she feels up to company?

Yeah. That one.

Finnick's trudging down the porch stairs when the door opens again, this time just a crack. "Finnick?"

"Annie!" Finnick spins on his heel. "I'm sorry, I wasn't going to come in, I promise. I was just-"

The door opens a tiny bit wider. "Just you? No one else?"

"No one else. I'm sorry, I was trying to leave you alone-" He turns to go, but Annie comes out onto the porch, holding out her hand.

"No, I was coming to find you. You were sitting here?"

Finnick hesitates, then they settle in next to each other on the bottom step. Annie slides her arm around his back, and he tucks his chin into her hair. "I shouldn't have, I'm sorry. I never imagined you'd come outside. I thought I'd just sit for a bit, and leave without you ever knowing I was here."

"No, that's kind of sweet." Annie hugs him. "Every time you accidentally scare me, you're being sweet. You missed me already? I was coming to apologize, and to explain."

"You don't have to. I know I've been frantic since the stroke. I was trying to tone it down, and then this happened." Finnick prides himself on his willpower, on resisting his impulses and staying focused on his goals, and then with Mags and Annie he keeps screwing it up.

"You didn't do anything, though. It's just I have to be alone to sleep-"

"This is the 'it's not you, it's me' speech?" Finnick interrupts. Does she know that he gives it every time he has to leave a client on good terms so he can move on to the next one?

"Yes, that's exactly what it is!" Annie flares. "At least if you want honesty. Do you want to hear why I moved out or not?"

He's not bracing himself any less than if she were listing his shortcomings, but yes, he supposes he does want honesty. "Go on. I'm sorry."

"Well. It really isn't you. Every time I woke up in Mags' house, if I heard a sound, I didn't know what it was. It always takes me a while to sort out not only what's real, but what's realistic. Like, _maybe_ it's Peacekeepers, but it's probably just you or Mags."

"What if I promised to be super quiet next to you?" he tries. He's not sure how he'd ever get anything done this way, but Finnick's not thinking long term. They don't have that kind of time left.

Annie shakes her head. "That's when I wake up trying to remember how you died. Did they kill you to punish me? Because I can't attend Capitol events? Did you die protecting me? Is what killed you still in the room with me?"

Finnick's still desperately scrambling to come up with a solution, but Annie continues, "When I woke up and you were moving, even quietly, I saw movement before I saw anything else. _What's moving? Is it a mutt? Is it a Career? Is it an earthquake? Is it a Peacekeeper? Should I freeze? Should I run? Should I hide?_ "

Fidgeting with a splinter on the railing, Finnick quietly surrenders. He doesn't get to choose who he lives with. It's only too bad this came after he started to care. At eighteen, they could have married him off to anyone.

"Besides. Remember when I couldn't handle you sleeping? Because you might wake up startled and scare me?"

Finnick remembers.

"And now I can. So there's hope. Just because I can't handle being married now-"

"Annie, they're never going to let me."

"All right, I know. But living together. I'm working on it."

He holds out his hand, and Annie takes it and hangs onto it. "That's one of the things I wanted to tell you. They may not let us live together either."

Annie gasps and looks at him in consternation.

"I haven't said anything yet, because I'm still not sure how this is going to play out. But the next time I leave, I may not be allowed to come back."

"You're going to marry her?" Annie's eyes meet his, pleading with him to tell her she misunderstood. "I thought our story saved you from that."

Finnick tightens his lips. "It may have. It fooled the socialites. But it didn't fool _him_ , and if I have to pay the price, I will." He avoids saying the President's name in situations like this, because he has reason to believe the chatter analysis from the bugs is programmed to jump on key words.

"Just because we wanted Mags to be in a real medical facility for a few days?" Annie asks in disbelief.

"The rules are different for victors, so maybe we can pull this off. But victors are under a hell of a lot of scrutiny, and none more than me." What Finnick doesn't say, both because they might be being recorded, and because he doesn't want to get Annie's hopes up, is that if he plays along, acts eager, he might be too valuable on the market to be married off just yet. That still may not result in him coming home. But he's playing every card he's got like the world depends on it.

"Will you hate me if I turn all-Capitol?" Finnick whispers.

"You wouldn't," she reassures him. "Not all the way."

Finnick shivers. "I may not have a choice," he confesses. He can't admit to her just how easy that would be. Easier than maintaining this double life.

He needs Annie to understand the kind of pressure he's under. Take care of Mags, but not in a way that endangers the revolution. Live by Four values, but fit in in the Capitol. Be part of Capitol propaganda, but don't buy into it. Be on television all the time, but don't let them despise you back home when they're forced to watch. Go deep cover, deep enough that no one would ever suspect you of gathering information, but not so deep you forget why you're there. Wear the mask, but don't become the mask. But don't resent it, either.

Annie wraps her arms around him and practically climbs on top of him to keep him here, if only for a little while. "Listen. If you have to, you have to. But if you can do that, then you can do the reverse. You can become Finnick again. And you will, when you come home. I'll help."

Finnick just shakes his head. He wishes he could believe he'll get the chance.

"I was going to say, tell Mags I'll keep doing what I'm doing, winning over sponsors for District Four, but I think she'll know that. Whether I'll be able to meet up with her once a year and give her the details, I don't know." Living in the Capitol will make it easier to gather information, harder to pass it on.

"You haven't told Mags?" Annie asks.

"I can't. What would the point be?" She'll know what her treatment cost—him, maybe the revolution, hopefully not Annie—soon enough. She'll figure it out. "I had to tell you, because I can't just abandon you without explaining."

"Will I get any warning when it happens?" Annie asks.

Finnick is grim. "Annie, this is your warning."

* * *

Finnick's been calling Dahlia since he got back, every few days. Striking the right balance between eager and desperate. He never quite promises to marry her, but he plays along with her hints. Flatters her. Giggles knowingly when she mentions losing weight to fit into the dress she wants.

Until the day he can't get through at their usual time. It's not that she's not answering, it's that the line is dead.

With prickles on the back of his neck, Finnick turns on the television. He's expecting a wedding announcement. Dahlia's to someone else, if he's lucky. His and Dahlia's, if he's not. His to someone else, if he's really in trouble.

So he almost misses the announcement, waiting impatiently for the social news.

"...devastating fire in the Morningglory mansion last night, leaving no survivors. This unspeakable tragedy..."

"What?!" Finnick actually finds himself on his feet, clutching the remote in his hand hard enough to warp the plastic.

His knees shake from all the adrenaline pumping through him. He knew he was in trouble for the off-season visit, he knew he was getting away with something, he knew he'd have to bend over backwards to make up for it.

But _now what_?

They let everyone from Four into the Capitol, then let them out again. Finnick's heard nothing directly, had no sign that anyone in power even noticed they were there.

Until this.

What does it mean that Dahlia's dead and he's alive?

He wants to plant himself in front of Mags and Annie, and then he realizes that no, he needs to plant himself as far away from them as possible.

But no, he needs to warn Annie first.

What is he going to do if something happens to Annie?

* * *

Finnick sometimes thinks the reason the pond is maintained, and kept inside the fence, is because there are cameras in the trees, and he swims naked, and he sometimes wonders: is that too much vanity, even for him?

But at times like this, he's sure.

Swimming with Annie in the middle of the pond, their hands all over each other's bodies, making out, whispering in each other's ears, is the safest way to talk unheard.

He clings to Annie while she processes the news, holding her tight like he can actually protect her. "Is my house next?" she finally asks, and he thought he had a grip on worst-case scenarios, but she's ahead of him here.

"Annie, I don't know what's next!" Finnick cries. "I've just been playing as cooperative as possible. I thought if I acted like I wanted to marry her, I might not have to. Then...this happened."

"You think he fell for it?" Annie wonders.

"Not for a minute. I think he doesn't want me off the market. I'm in my prime, after all. I was counting on that, angling for her to take the fall. I wasn't counting on... _this_."

"What are you going to do?"

Finnick shakes his head, helpless. He wishes he had a better plan. "The Hunger Games are in a few weeks. I was expecting to be summoned before then, but if I'm not, I'll mentor, and I'll do everything in my power to keep you safe. That means jumping through every hoop, following every rule, not trying to get away with anything like I usually do. Maybe it'll be enough. I still may not be allowed to come back, I always knew that."

He imagines living in the Capitol on the market instead of married to Dahlia. It'll be better for spying, but some of his clients...

It doesn't matter, he tells himself for the hundredth time. Protect Annie. Protect Mags. Do his job as Four's best spy.

"That's not much longer." Annie chews her lip. "Maybe I can try again with you and Mags, make it work for a few more weeks...I'm sorry, I didn't know. I feel awful. You're going to leave, and I may never see you again."

The temptation breaks Finnick's heart, but he shakes his head. "You're safer not being too closely connected to me after this. And honestly, I'm not sure I want that being my last memory of you. If living alone is better for you...I'll come over when you're feeling up to it? And you'll keep coming to visit Mags?"

"Always," Annie promises. "What should I do after you leave?"

Finnick shakes his head. "Have a meltdown so they keep underestimating you? Stay close to Mags? I'd tell you if I knew."

"I'm one of the expendable victors," Annie reminds him. "So is Mags."

She keeps telling him things he knows and things he can't fucking do anything about. "I'll do my best, Annie. I'm going to give Snow what he wants from me. That's all I can do. Maybe I'm valuable enough to get away with what I did for Mags, if I don't push it any more."

"I just can't believe he'd have someone in the Capitol killed. I thought they were safe."

"No one's safe," Finnick says bluntly. "There's only a hierarchy of—of expendability. Is that a word? I'm lower than a lot of the Capitolites, but higher than her. She was a lot richer, but she never knew how to play the game."

"Not a victor?" Annie says, in a surprisingly dark quip from her.

"Not a victor," Finnick agrees. "Just another casualty of me playing to win."

* * *

Mags gives Finnick a smile when she hears him come into the kitchen, and she hopes it hides the anxiety. If they're both getting breakfast, either she slept later than she ever does, or he was up late with insomnia. She glances up at the kitchen clock. No, it's her. Sleeping all the time now.

Not that that means he's spent the morning sleeping. Trying to sleep while listening with one ear until he heard her get up, more like.

As he comes closer, Mags can already feel his hands closing over her shoulders, ruffling her hair, cupping her cheek. She half-smiles in anticipation, but she doesn't look up from the container of grapes in front of her.

She's thankful her hands are as dexterous as ever, even if it means being thankful to that hospital in the Capitol, because she's able to pry it open without asking for help.

"Tired of waffles yet?" Finnick's teasing, but she hears the hidden offer.

But she nods. Nothing's a treat if you get it every day.

He'll be disappointed, but she'll thank him with her hands, and he'll know what she means.

So when she hears the fridge open, Mags looks up in surprise. No morning hug? Maybe it's a good sign, maybe it means the shock of her stroke is wearing off.

"Oh, wow!" Finnick's got his head inside the fridge. "Is all this from Annie?"

Yes, it's all from Annie. Mags hasn't had the heart to tell her she's not up to eating most of it. Whatever Finnick doesn't, Mags'll throw out bit by bit and let Annie keep tackling her guilt with food deliveries. It's not honest, but who can be honest when they don't have words?

It's the same reason she's keeping Finnick busy. She wants to help him find his calm again, but she can't get her reassurances through to him, so she's been letting him work off his fear instead. She hopes it's helping.

"Anything you want?" Finnick reads the note attached to one of the baking dishes. "Egg, cheese, mushroom, and squash casserole? Wow, Annie, seriously. I can make a mean plate of hash browns and salsa to go with it," he offers enticingly. "Annie's trained me well."

Mags sighs. And then there are the times when Finnick and Annie conspire to put her on the spot without meaning to.

Stalling for time, Mags spreads some marmalade on her bread—not toasted because she was too tired—and tries to strategize. If she accepts, he'll notice when she barely touches it. But if she refuses, she'll have to think up something else. She wishes she could tell him she'd rather have the morning hug, but she can't get up and walk across the kitchen.

"No?" Finnick says, when the silence goes on too long. "Mags, you eat like a bird. You always have."

His voice is full of affection, not reproach, but Mags still hears the disappointment. She matches it with a smidgen of annoyance of her own. _Yes, I've always had bread and fruit for breakfast. Why do you think that's what you grew up on? What makes you think I'm going to change now? I only do comfort food when I'm stressed._

But her annoyance fades as quickly as it came. She can't handle watching him trying to hide how freaked out he is for the same reason he can't handle watching her with one foot in the grave. Mags just wants to know Finnick will be all right without her, which may be sooner rather than later.

It would be so easy if she could reach him, envelop him, with her words. They've always understood each other, and she's always been able to manage him effortlessly. So much so that until now, she'd forgotten that he needed management. Now he needs her, and she can't help him. How to tell him that just because she needs space, doesn't mean she doesn't love him more than anyone in the world? How does she tell him how much she misses working with him?

Mags closes one hand into a fist over her heart and reaches out the other to Finnick. _My boy._

Leaving the fridge, Finnick takes one step toward her, but then his restraint crumples. "I'm sorry, Mags. You don't need to be babysitting. I'll come by in the evenings in case you need anything."

Before she can even think of trying to call him back with her broken babble, Finnick's gone. He closes the front door behind him, leaving her feeling small and selfish at getting her wish.

* * *

This series is dedicated to my partner, who's not even in this fandom, but listened to me talk about my fic non-stop for three years and was a wonderful sounding board. She must really love me or something. Special thank yous to everyone who read drafts or helped me hash out developments in chat: lorata, starrose3, twinklestar, inelegantprose, trovia, and kawuli.

Lots of thanks to anyone who left comments, or clicked like/kudos/favorite/bookmark on AO3/FFN/tumblr. Seriously, comments are LOVE. An especial thank you to drivingdeanwinchester, who silently and reliably clicked "like" on every one of my writing updates on tumblr, whether I was venting or celebrating, and thus saved me from months of shouting into the void; that was more encouraging than you know. And to the anonymous "teenager from the Caribbean" who left the Best Comment Ever on _Mags' Weapon_ : OMG ILU, I hope you enjoy this fic too!


	2. Chapter 2

"I'll come home if I can." Finnick clings to Annie for a goodbye hug that may be their last. "If I can't..."

"Mags and I will take care of each other," Annie promises. They're standing in her front yard in the Victors' Village, minutes before they're supposed to leave for the Reaping.

"Don't believe anything you see on television," Finnick reminds her.

"I don't watch television, remember?" Annie gives a shaky laugh. "Who are you again? Are you famous?"

Finnick smiles with her, always game for gallows humor, but he insists, in a voice that trembles only a little, "If I'm forced to take up residence in the Capitol...whatever I have to imply about you as my reason for leaving District Four, it's just for the cameras."

"I'll remember. Don't forget who you are," Annie murmurs, smoothing his hair. "I won't forget."

Finnick can't promise. If he has to live in the Capitol year round...it's already hard not to get lost inside. His throat is too thick to speak, and it's Annie who has to finally break the embrace. "You'd better go."

He nods. "You'd better get inside before-" _The Peacekeepers show up to drag you to the Reaping._

Annie hesitates, and her mouth starts to move unhappily, but Finnick shakes his head firmly. "No. No apologizing." He knows she's miserable that she can't mentor in Mags' place this year, but he can't leave her here beating herself up. "Not your fault."

"I _can't_ ," she finally says. She turns around and re-enters her house.

* * *

Mags won't let Finnick brood on the train. She gives him a poke with her cane and makes him focus on the tributes. God, he hates mentoring, and he's no good at it either. The kids are intimidated by him, and he can never figure out what to tell them. _I can't explain how to survive. I just did._

Mags doesn't give a damn about his feelings, though. Until the tributes are on the hovercraft, she makes him fill in for her. He can sense her frustration when he says the wrong thing or fails to say the right thing, but there's nothing anyone can do about that.

Donn should have come, but trust him to get sick at the worst possible time. But Finnick has to admit he's getting older. He's probably been dragging himself to the Capitol for years when he wasn't really up to it. This is the first year Mags has allowed Finnick to do more than observe. _Maybe she shouldn't have this time either,_ Finnick thinks glumly, but then he tells himself to suck it up. _Mags was mentoring at a much younger age than you, with no training at all. How many tributes died so she could get the experience we take for granted now?_

The moment the tributes are gone, Mags pats Finnick's hand. _You did the best you could._

Then it's off to the viewing area, where he gets to hobnob with sponsors before the tributes enter the arena. At least this part, he's good at. At least they've got a half-decent fund when the anthem starts and he goes to sit by Mags, calculating in the back of his mind how he's going to keep all the appointments he just made.

He finds Mags nodding off, but she comes to with instant alertness when the cannon goes off and the sprint to the Cornucopia begins. Finnick watches her just long enough to see her black eyes narrowed in focus before he turns his own attention to the screen.

Three minutes later, he's groaning, and Mags' lips are pressed tight.

"Fuck. Not again."

Finnick looks at Mags, desperate for someone to tell him that he's wrong; that their unsuspecting tributes weren't just slaughtered by the Career pack in the bloodbath because Finnick is formally mentoring for the first time and no one knows what he might have up his sleeve.

Even when she can't speak, she doesn't lie to him.

"Fuck, I thought we were past this." At least the year after he won, Mags had seen this coming and had given the tributes a plan. They still died, but at least they weren't caught with their pants down. Finnick looks at the scoreboard. Less than three minutes?

"If you ever want us in the Career pack again," he rants at the screen, "you need to stop pulling this shit. The first time, okay, I made you nervous. But this is persecution!"

"Wow, is that a record?" a smirking voice comes from over his shoulder. " _Mine_ are still in the running. Who would have guessed?"

Johanna Mason comes around and thrusts her hand out at Mags. "Since you guys have nothing better to do than make friends with outlier districts right now, I thought I'd get to know the intelligent one."

As Mags shakes her hand, Finnick takes a perverse pleasure in telling her about Mags' stroke. "So we're having a bad year," he concludes, "but at least now so are you." He bares his teeth in a smile. "Sit down, Seven."

"Well, it's not like you have to mentor," Johanna retorts, "so come join me. You can watch the Seven feed. It might be as entertaining as my year. No, I lie. But come anyway."

Finnick shakes his head once. "Not budging." He's promised not to hover over Mags, but he's not leaving her alone in this room.

"Have it your way." Johanna tosses her head. "I'll be over when I don't need to keep an eye on the ickle babies in the arena."

Finnick grins at her provocative sashay back to her couch. Every year he regrets not having more time to cultivate this almost-friendship, and every year he shoehorns in some time anyway. He loves that with a certain prickly ex-log driver named Johanna, insults count as cultivating.

As for Mags, he fights his urge to hover, but he does escort her to her suite at the end of the day. Then he lingers and, for once, doesn't leave when she starts shooing him out. Finnick shakes his head and grins. "I have an idea."

When the Avox arrives to wait on Mags, Finnick explains what he wants: sign language instruction. "Write down what you're going to say, and then show us how to sign it."

She looks nervous, but Finnick looks at her reassuringly. _I won't tell,_ he mouths, and then, aloud, "It's just to help an old lady communicate. She can't talk and she can't write, but she can still understand and read."

An hour later, Mags is frustrated because Finnick is picking this up quickly and she's not. She can copy signs, but she can't string them together into anything meaningful. It's exhausting, but Finnick chirps, "Just keep practicing!"

Cruel, yes, to be that oblivious to her weariness, but that's his persona. Mags nods and persists, until finally Finnick calls it off, well into the evening. When they're alone, he faces her and says more seriously, "We have to keep these lessons up."

Mags agrees, even through eyes watering with fatigue. She knows this is his one excuse to learn a secret language that could do his spying a world of good. Without her, he has no excuse to sit down with an Avox.

He's as frustrated as she is, though. "So you can make up your own signs, but you can't learn a sign language?"

Mags can only shrug impatiently, and Finnick laughs. "Okay, you're not a brain surgeon. Neither am I." It makes a little sense, though: her signs aren't language and often aren't consistent from conversation to conversation. What they've been learning tonight has structure and everything. He'd been hoping, though...and he can tell so was she. "All right, we'll try again tomorrow. Maybe it'll click."

Finnick leans over to kiss Mags on the forehead in apology for putting her through this, even though he knows she's not doing it for him.

Once he's made himself go back to his own suite, on his usual fruitless quest for sleep, he tosses restlessly in bed. Two tributes dead, because Finnick is too famous for pulling the unexpected on you. The irony of it is that the other districts had much more to worry about before Mags stopped being able to mentor. _Four may never get another victor now._

Finnick doesn't even want to think about what happens if Mags can't make even a formal appearance and Annie's forced to come. So he pushes his train of thought back to less painful topics, like the deaths he's responsible for.

He can't see the Avox here without thinking of the young woman he met at Dahlia's house last year. The one from District Four. The one he killed.

He relives it every night: Mags' stroke, Dahlia's hovercraft. The media abuzz with knowing looks at rumors of his marriage.

 _She_ _is_ _the wealthiest woman who's courted him, don't you know._

Then he got cold feet and let himself be guilt-tripped by the mad girl next door into going back home.

Now Dahlia's dead, along with all her staff, and Finnick's in the Capitol for the Hunger Games season.

He knows exactly what Snow wants from him: a distraction. Something for everyone to look at instead of thinking about how awful the state of Panem is. Like the pageantry of the Hunger Games, Finnick is a circus.

And also like the Hunger Games, Finnick is one of Snow's best tools of propaganda. He's living proof that if you follow the rules, you, a nobody kid from the districts, can turn into Finnick Odair.

Finnick's willingness to play his role to the hilt, to go above and beyond what's required of him, is what has allowed him to negotiate some elbow room. But now that he's spent all his currency at once, he needs to build his credit back up. Starting tonight.

With that in mind, he should get in a couple of hours of sleep first, but he finally has to admit that's not happening here. Beds are for sex, and for tossing and turning in. Feeling more than a little silly, Finnick gets up and sits by the door to the adjoining suite, leaning back against it. Whether it's because he can pretend he's not alone, because he can pretend he's protecting Mags, or because he's used to dropping off while sitting up, he thinks he's got a better shot at sleep here.

* * *

"Bitch!"

Brutus strides into the viewing area, fuming.

Johanna's furious too, so she sits up straight and calls back, "You talkin' to me?"

Eyes widening in alarm, Blight grabs her wrist. "Don't poke the bear!" he hisses.

Irritated, Johanna yanks her wrist free. "Speak for yourself."

As she intended, Brutus is diverted from whoever he wanted to direct his rage at over in the One or Two section, and he comes to loom over Johanna instead. "What happened? Your tributes die again? My boy's the frontrunner."

"Not last I checked," Johanna taunts. "Some outlier got an eleven." It sets Johanna's teeth on edge, the way this girl is all anyone can talk about. _'Girl on Fire'—that's not anything she did, that was her stylist. If I set my stylist on fire, will_ _she_ _become famous?_ Johanna snickers at the image. _We could call it 'Forest Fire.'_

"Anyway, what's got your knickers in a knot, caveman? Didn't get lucky last night?" Her scanning of the couches has turned up Cashmere sitting with her head down, trying not to poke the bear.

Brutus follows her gaze and laughs. "Oh please. It's not even luck."

Johanna makes her voice drip with syrupy sympathy. "I know, that's why it must have been so devastating that she said no for the first time ever."

The grin on Brutus' face changes to narrowed eyes. "I don't think you know who you're messing with, little girl." He glances over at the empty District Four couch. "No boyfriend to come save you?"

Johanna rises from her couch, tilts her head up to meet his eyes, and cackles. "Ha! But you looked." She punches Blight in the arm to get his attention. "He looked," she crows.

Johanna's blood is up. Every year she has to come to the Capitol and participate in this little mummery that the life of a victor is so fabulous, and watch her tributes die, and she has no outlet for her fury. Riling up Brutus for no reason at all is intoxicating.

"You know why I looked," Brutus says, his voice low and dangerous.

The whole room is watching with bated breath. Nothing exciting is happening on screen right now. The security guards tense, ready to move in if it gets physical. Smack talk is fine, but this wouldn't be the first time a fight broke out when someone's tribute died.

"Yeah, gotta prove you're a man somehow, I guess."

Brutus' hand tightens into a fist, but he restrains himself. "You pretend you are, but you're just counting on being a little slip of a girl to save you. Again."

It's considered bad form to boast about killing other mentors' tributes, but Johanna's got to hold her ground here. "Why don't you ask your girl three years ago about that? Or the boy from Four." _Two Careers, asshole._

Just then, with regrettable timing, because she's not trying to pick a fight with Four but will accept collateral damage if she has to, she hears someone call, "Finnick, you better come rescue your girlfriend!"

She's on the verge of picking a fight with two Careers at once, when Finnick's voice comes floating back, in a conspiratorial stage whisper. "You sure you want to call Brutus that where he can hear you?"

A beatific smile lights up Johanna's face. All right, that was gold. She'll take this alliance.

Very casually, Finnick drifts by her couch on the way to his. "Johanna, I'm not questioning whether you can cut him down to size; I agree he's smaller than a tree. I'm just asking if the consequences are worth it."

Smirking, Johanna stands back and watches the scene play out. He's instantly put her in a better mood, and this is too good to miss.

Finnick meanders back to his couch, refusing to make eye contact with Brutus, who's following him and trying to provoke him.

"I just rescued you, you're welcome, don't push your luck."

"Look, we all know why you're afraid to have that pretty face rearranged."

Not dignifying that with a response, Finnick sits down next to Mags, who's getting settled. She swats her cane at Brutus' knees when he tries walking around in front.

"Mags says not to block her view," Finnick translates. "She's not tall enough to see over you."

Johanna looks around to find someone to share the entertainment with. She sees a bunch of smothered grins. Cecilia mouths at her, _Poor Brutus._

Johanna's declaring victory now both because it makes it look like Brutus had to be rescued from her— _well played, Finnick_ —and because, like everyone else, she's curious to see if Finnick will take up the gauntlet.

The odds are not looking good for a spontaneous mini-arena, though. Finnick holds up a languid hand so Brutus, standing behind the couch and out of Mags' way, can see. "I just got my manicure done. Not a good time."

"Pretty boy forgot how to fight!" Brutus sputters, making sure the whole room can hear him.

"Pretty boy doesn't need to fight," Finnick says, still amused. He waves the same hand in Johanna's direction. " _I'm_ staying on her good side."

Johanna takes that as her cue to come over and join the District Four couch. She was already planning to drop by later today, in hopes he's serious about wanting the intelligence she's gathered, but this farce is sweetening the pot. Her day is already looking up.

"Unbelievable." Brutus shakes his head. "Could you be any more shameless?"

"Hi, I'm Finnick Odair!" Finnick introduces himself brightly. "You may have seen me on television? Shameless is the middle name."

Just then, Mags' cane whacks Finnick's knees, then Brutus' elbow, over the back of the couch. Then Johanna's left knee, which has just come within reach, for good measure.

"Mags says she's trying to concentrate," Finnick translates. "The Games are on."

"You're not even worth picking a fight with," Brutus laments, determined to get the last word even as he walks away in disappointment. "Wouldn't mean anything any more."

Johanna leans over Finnick. "Either you really care about your manicure, or you have a lot more self-restraint than I do." Without asking permission, she grabs his right hand and inspects it. "It's silver."

"It changes color," he informs her. "And I have nothing to prove."

"Must be nice," Johanna grumbles. Her biggest problem is getting people to take her seriously. His biggest problem, if she's right, is getting people not to take him seriously. "You always get so tarted up for the Games?"

"No," Finnick confirms. "This is an unusual year."

On screen, Peeta is helping lead the Careers to his district partner.

Johanna scowls at Mags. "You," she says with an emphatic point of her finger, "have atrocious timing."

Mags smiles apologetically. It's true.

"How does mentoring work?" Johanna wonders.

"You mean with Mags not at the top of her game?" Finnick asks. "We may have to formally assign one mentor to each tribute, but District Four has always mentored as a team. That hasn't changed."

"Makes sense."

Mags gives Finnick a meaningful look, and Finnick laughs when he catches it. "Well, except for Sixty-Five." He explains to Johanna, "Mags gave Livia to Donn while she and Rudder moved earth and sea to bring me home."

"Lucky you," Johanna says. "Had a mentor and sponsors and everything."

Mags points at Johanna.

"You had sponsors," Finnick says, surprised. "Blight was saving the money for an emergency. But you were handling everything on your own, which is rare." He turns his head to her. "He didn't tell you any of this?"

Johanna humphs. "Not likely. I get my mentoring on this couch."

Now she's wondering whether, if he'd sent her some food or clean water to begin with, her recovery might have been easier. The doctors told her that Scorpio venom wasn't her only problem, and remembering how weak and sick she was when the endgame hit, she believes it.

"I was mentor-in-training that year," Finnick tells her. "Mags, Donn, and me. You didn't have a lot of funds to spare, but you were keeping things interesting enough to get you food or medicine in an emergency. I think we'd have let you into the Career pack if you'd sold us on your skills and appeal."

"You'd have gotten in your pack easy," Johanna points out. "We both wanted to be ignored. Besides, it's not like the Career pack has a high bar for admission." She nods with her chin toward the screen. "Look, even Lover Boy got in by faking a crush on the right girl."

Finnick raises his eyebrows. "He's playing some kind of game. I just can't tell what it is." Then he winks. "I'm sure Mags knows."

Mags gives a "not saying I do, not saying I don't" look, and Johanna and Finnick chuckle.

"Mags has terrible timing," Johanna repeats. She's going to have to convey all her intelligence to the pretty boy.

It was bad enough when Finnick came and sat with District Seven, but at least it looked like _he_ was chasing _her_. If everyone thinks she's getting some action, so much the better. _But following this brainless piece of fluff around?_

But hell. She's survived the Hunger Games, she's broken the hold the painkillers had on her, and she's living with pain every day. She'd do worse than look like one of Finnick's besotted admirers if it means fighting back.

If only she could be sure she's fighting back.

Sighing, Johanna yields another tiny step of her pride to pragmatism and joins Finnick and Mags on the couch.

Playing along, Mags scoots down to the chaise longue and gives them as much privacy as possible. In a practiced move, Finnick's arm slides around the couch behind Johanna, not quite touching, and he leans his head an inch away from her ear.

For all that he's gotten her into a situation where they have to put on public displays of affection if they want an excuse to talk, Finnick's been carefully professional at times like this, almost distant. It's the only reason Johanna's been willing to play along.

Shit, even if it's just bait to lure her in, it still means he's a damned sight smarter than anyone else who ever went after her. She actually allows herself to relax, trusting that she's not going to have to smack him when he tries something on her.

"Roads," she begins, in a whisper. Then, in a soft but slightly more normal voice, she starts telling him about her work. "I've been spending most of my time clearing roads and train tracks at the border: snow in the winter, mud in the spring, rocks and ruts in the summer. It doesn't take a lot of brute strength, and I have the stamina to dig all day." _On a good day._

"And it keeps you in shape," Finnick adds. "That's how Four turns out Careers even with hardly part-time training. We have useful jobs."

"Also, I can kill you with a shovel," Johanna half-jokes. She's gratified by Finnick's appreciative chuckle.

"I wouldn't mess with you," he agrees.

Always on the lookout for ways to confirm that a lot of sedition really is underway in Four, Johanna turns her head to look him in the eye, breaking the banter. "I know," she says, but in such a way that it's really a question. _Is this for real? Are we planning a revolution, or are you trying to get in my pants?_

Finnick gives her the same minuscule nod that he gave her when they met. _I'm safe_ , it says. _I'm not the enemy._

Yes, this sincerity could all be an act. He's a consummate actor, better even than Johanna. But the better the act, the less she cares. She wants one thing: she wants to be able to work with this district, because as far as she can tell, they're like her. They get shit done.

She'd prefer to sit and talk with Mags, but one, Mags can't talk back, and two, whispering in each other's ears would look weird, and because weird, suspicious.

 _I need to move there._

For now, she's stuck here playing games with Finnick, so she resumes whispering. When it comes time for her to pass on the map, she hesitates, with no way to draw it.

Then, quick-minded as she's always been, she sees the obvious slate. She doubts she's the first to think of it.

"Goddamnit," she mutters. This isn't a slippery slope, this is free fall.

"Axe," Finnick reminds her. "Kidney. And shovel," he adds with a chuckle.

Well, if that's their code for _I won't touch you without permission_ , she'll have to take it. She's starting to believe him, but she keeps having to give permission, and her resentment keeps growing.

"I have a good memory," Finnick assures her. _You'll only have to do this once._

Gritting her teeth, Johanna gingerly edges her hand from her lap over to Finnick's thigh and begins tracing lines with her fingertips. She's sure the expression on her face is not one of lust; she just hopes she's keeping the fury from showing.

"Border," she whispers, tracing one line. "Main line, four parallel tracks."

Just as she's finishing, Finnick interrupts with, "If you leave your hand where it is, I'll move it off. It's more convincing that way."

"Fine." She's not being so convincing she can complain.

It's humiliating, being treated like she's so sick with infatuation that he's having to tell her to tone it down, but his hand only touches hers for a second. He's not the problem here; the problem is the surveillance. Victors are under a goddamn microscope, and never more than when they're all gathered to watch their tributes die.

The next thing Johanna does, before she lets him get a word in, is get her revenge.

"So is Rudder available for marriage?"

She smirks to herself when the normally unflappable Finnick loses his poise and stares at her in confusion.

"Is...what?"

"I hear the weather's more appealing in Four. I'm sick of Seven." _And I won't have to do this again with you._

"Well..." Finnick thinks about this. He obviously didn't see this one coming, and it makes her smirk. "I could ask. You like the strong, silent type?"

"That actually is my reputation at home, but honestly? If I'm not interested in you, I'm not interested in anyone."

"Women?" Finnick wonders.

Johanna shakes her head. "Men or women. For as long as I can remember. So if he's _not_ interested, that would be best."

"Okay, well, it's a thought. I can't make promises, but we'd love to have you."

* * *

Finnick keeps twisting around in his seat to look at Twelve. "Haymitch disappeared again."

Johanna rolls her eyes. "He's just getting a drink. Can we go back to mocking tributes?" Her back won't let her turn and look anyway.

"No, he and the boy are up to something, I just don't know what."

"I'll take your word for it." Johanna doesn't care enough about people to study them and try to figure out what makes them tick. And the amount of attention the hapless lover boy is getting is already starting to grate. Especially with Finnick raving every five minutes about Katniss's weapons proficiency and her smarts. Kind of ironic, if the boy who makes everyone fall in love with his television appearances has lost his head over someone he's never met.

After a restless hour, in which Johanna elbows him more than once to get him to sit still, Finnick rises. "I'll be back."

Well, hell if Johanna's going to sit around on this couch like she has nothing better to do than be at his disposal 24/7, while he comes and goes as he pleases. So as soon as he's gone, she's back with Blight, who has the self-preservation instincts not to make any remarks about her and Finnick. He doesn't poke bears, whether the bear is named Brutus or Johanna.

Finnick finds her at the District Seven couch a couple of hours later, but he doesn't sit down. "Look, I'm going to be gone, maybe for a few days. If someone rings you up at night speaking gibberish, go make sure Mags hasn't fallen or anything. Okay?"

"Sure, whatever, if I'm in my room. Now move, you're blocking the view. And no, you're _not_ the view," Johanna adds hastily, cutting off that line of retaliation before it can start.

"Thanks," Finnick says, too distracted to react. "I don't know what's going to happen in the next few days. I just like to be prepared."

Then he's gone. Only after he's left does Johanna sort out what just happened. "That doesn't even make any sense," she mutters to Blight. "Why me? Mags has had friends in this room since before I was born."

"Can't help you," Blight says. "No idea what goes on between you and District Four, not interested."

She would have appreciated some interest when she was a tribute, but at least the apathy means he's not actively pissing her off with stupid comments. He's let Finnick sit over here before without even acting like he noticed.

But the other victors are noticing, and talking. She's got to do something about this, and she knows what. She only doesn't know what's taken her so long about it.

She's got money. She's got a stylist. Her stylist is stupid, and Johanna vetoes most of her stupid ideas, but she knows more about technique than Johanna ever will, and so between them both they come up with some pretty stunning ensembles.

She does and doesn't recognize herself in the mirror. The makeup is foreign, but the "I dare you" posture is all hers. This is the first time she's gotten a say in her own presentation, and she could get used to this. Black top, red skirt. Spangles, satin, lace, and leather that she fucking earned, paid for with her blood and pain. This is her real trophy.

The District Seven stylist surveys the final outfit with approval. "I'm telling you, Johanna, there's nothing to be ashamed of if you get your breasts enhanced. It's all the rage. Simply everyone has had some touchup done somewhere on their body."

"But I'm from a backwoods district, and I'm just not ready to make that leap yet," Johanna says demurely, donning her harmless little girl persona while rolling her eyes to herself.

She doesn't have the luxury of enhancements. She's got to be able to switch at will between being flamboyant and being one of the guys. And her back's got enough to do holding up her head some days.

"Maybe next year, then." Her stylist looks disappointed. "You do look like a doll," she adds encouragingly.

"Ha." She may look like a doll, but she feels invincible.

Johanna never knew that a halter top and a miniskirt could feel like armor, but it's a big fuck-you to everyone who's ever tried to limit her, and it feels strangely right. With her newly long hair hanging saucily around her shoulders and streaked with green, she goes on the prowl.

She's been meaning to do this for some time, Finnick or no Finnick. All these years, she's been telling herself she's not interested in sex. And all these years, she's had to argue down the little voice in her head wondering if it's not just that she's trying to fend off unwanted attention at home.

Well, she's just proposed to a man in District Four on the grounds that she's not interested in men or women, so it's high time she proved to herself that she's right.

If that were all, she could have Finnick for the asking, without going to all this trouble, but she will fuck everybody in the world before she fucks Finnick Odair.

Because she likes playing with fire, Johanna starts with District Two. Aula gives her a good, long appreciative look, so Johanna bats her eyelash extensions in her direction, and they're off.

Johanna makes sure she's seen entering Aula's room on the second floor—which is, after all, ninety percent of the point—and then she sets herself to making sure she doesn't get a reputation as a rookie.

This may be her first time, after all, but she's no innocent. By the time they're finished, Johanna is flattering herself that she performed well enough, and she never has to do this again. Well, one more time, to be precise, and then she's done.

As she's pulling her clothes back on, impatient to get out of here, it occurs to Johanna that maybe she can pull a leaf out of Finnick's tree, if she just plays it right.

"Hey. Since I'm the new one here. You have any idea what names the good stuff goes by, the painkillers? I have a source, but I don't know what to ask for. Half that shit I'm sure is great if you need meds, but it's no fun, if you know what I mean."

There. That'll get her the same information, without letting on that her injuries are still bothering her.

"Ah." Aula grins. "So you've got your doctor thinking you're still in pain."

Johanna winks. "Hard to prove I'm not." She can get whatever she wants in the Capitol, but she can't bring it home—not legally. But she can't let on to them that she's broken her dependence, or that she still needs something for her back.

"No, you're far from the only one. Now that's not our vice, usually, in Two," Aula says complacently, "but you're one of the outlying districts. Buff or Poppy from Six might be able to get you some leads. Or even District One, come to think of it. Some of them-" She sneers, and Johanna sneers with her, hating that she's being lumped in with the brainless districts. If she'd just had _training_ -

But there's no point in thinking about how she might not be in pain. She is. And she needs to know what to take that won't leave her apathetic and drooling.

So Johanna finds a pretty boy from District One, fucks him in the stairwell, and gets her list.

Mission accomplished. She's established her reputation as someone who takes what she wants, not someone who's panting helplessly after a celebrity everyone wants and no one can have. She's proved to herself that sex is nothing but tedious playacting for her. Not interested.

And, as a bonus, she's closing in on the medication she needs.

Not a bad start to the Games, all told.

* * *

But what catches her attention, as much as she's trying to stay detached from the Games themselves, is the rule change. Two tributes can be declared victors, if they're from the same district. District Two is over the moon about this, but everyone knows they're not the reason the change was made. Johanna doesn't know what to make of it. She doesn't even know where to start.

Then, in the wake of the announcement, Finnick shows up. Johanna's been determined not to notice his comings and goings, but after his disappearing act, the banter strikes up the moment he reappears in the viewing area. District One notices him first, as he passes by their section, and then Two.

"Hey, Finnick, you've got more marks on you than my tribute!"

"Keepin' the sponsors hungry?"

"Busy schedule," he agrees, grinning and taking his seat by Mags. "Did I miss anything?"

Johanna narrows her eyes. Does he really not know about the rule change, or is he playing innocent?

Johanna stews for a while, then heaves a sigh of resignation and stands up. If he really doesn't know, then he's no spy, and that answers her question. Then she'll never have to do this again.

And if he does know...well, she's passed information to him for years. He can damn well pass some to her.

"What the fuck is up with that announcement?" she demands as soon as she sits down. He slides his arm over the back of the couch behind her but, as always, carefully doesn't touch her.

"What, star-crossed true love doesn't move you?" Finnick teases, folding his other hand dramatically over his heart and directing a lovelorn sigh at the heavens.

All right, he knows. He still may not be a spy, but at least it means he didn't spend the last couple nights wasted and oblivious to anything but pleasure. It's a start.

Now she wants her answers.

"That is such bullshit! There's been flirting and pining and longing looks since the first mentor figured out sex and romance get you sponsors. If that could get you a rule change, District One would have pulled this off a long time ago. What really happened?"

"Well," Finnick says, recovering from his affected sprawl, "maybe you should have been paying attention earlier when I was trying to tell you." He raises a significant eyebrow and glances around the room to indicate that it's not safe to talk more openly.

No matter, Johanna can put together the pieces with this many clues. Abernathy was hobnobbing with Gamemakers like dedicated mentors do, and Finnick was drumming up support in the Capitol from the wealthy and influential. She still doesn't know why he cares so much if two Twelve tributes come home, when Katniss is the one he's gone gaga over, and the boy's worse than useless, but at least she knows what he's up to.

At any rate, she's not going to sit here and try to read his mind. She's not even sure how much longer she wants to sit here. He's got marks on his neck, sure enough, and a little smudge. "You missed a spot," she informs him in disgust. "You're such a cliche."

"No, I didn't," Finnick says wearily. "Everything is for effect. But since you brought the subject up, the grapevine tells me you've been having some active nights yourself?"

"Damn straight." Johanna readies herself for a good fight. "I do whatever the hell I want. And if you're not getting lucky, you can just-"

"That's not what I'm getting at," Finnick interrupts. He lowers his voice even further. "I'm just checking that you're doing what _you_ want."

Now she's offended. "What, because they're bigger than I am, you think I'm _intimidated_?" Does he even know what it's like back home? She's been defending herself with a pole or a shovel against men twice her size since she hit puberty. "You think-"

Finnick rolls his eyes and exhales through his gritted teeth. Then he leans even closer, until his lips are almost touching her ear, and mutters very fast, so quietly she can barely hear him. She's about to shift away when his words make her freeze. "No, I'm thinking the leader of our great country decided to take an interest in your nightlife. Tell me he didn't, and I don't give a damn who you fuck."

"Oh." Johanna deflates. "Oh." Yes, she knew that Snow likes punishing victors, and for her that means addiction and pain, and she hates the bastard, but she'd forgotten what it meant for Finnick. He was so damn vague about the details, and she's spent the last three years worrying so much over whether his playboy lifestyle is a cover for resistance or the real thing that she'd forgotten it was a cover for whatever hold Snow has over him. "Why do you put up with that shit anyway?"

Without saying anything, Finnick glances over at Mags, who's ignoring them and watching the screen, and then moves his hand abruptly on his lap, in what she realizes a second later is an abbreviated throat-chopping gesture.

Johanna presses her lips together. "Wow. Okay." A stiff silence follows. "Thanks for asking."

Then, as soon as she says that, it occurs to her that no one else asked.

"While we're on this topic," Finnick says, "I do realize what our...work together...is doing to your reputation. Mine is long gone, so whatever you need to say as damage control for yours, I'll handle the fallout, don't worry about it."

Another iota of Johanna's suspicion melts. Maybe they really are working together, maybe she's not fooling herself. "I'll say you're overrated," she offers. "Maybe they'll leave you alone."

Finnick laughs. "Whatever you need to say. And I won't take it personally."

The silence after that is more companionable, and Johanna amuses herself with choice remarks about the scene in the cave, Katniss's ridiculous stories, her awkward attempts at kissing a boy, the over-the-top fakeness of the whole thing. When she glances over at Finnick for appreciation of her latest quip, though, she sees him fast asleep. Sitting up, without so much as a twitch or a sound to indicate that he'd dropped off.

She's about to wonder out loud if narcolepsy is contagious, when she sees that Mags, who naps unselfconsciously whenever she wants, is wide awake, one eye on the screen, one eye on Finnick.

Catching her eye, Mags gives a little shake of her head, as if to say, _Let him sleep._

If Johanna's tributes ever made it this far in the Games, she'd have to trade shifts with Blight, but the Four kids have been dead since the bloodbath. This is something else. Looking back and forth between the screen, the man sleeping beside her, and the alert woman across from them, Johanna becomes more and more convinced that Finnick and Mags are up to their ears in plots.

Maybe he's not so bad. Maybe she's right, and his persona is an act. He may be completely outrageous in public, but up close, he's surprised her with how well he behaves himself.

 _Oh my god, are you that desperate? You don't have to use your shovel on him and he's automatically a god among men? No wonder he's got so many lovers, if the bar's this low._

But it's not just that he hasn't made a pass at her, or even the information and medication he's brought her without asking anything in return. It's the little things, like remembering her line about felling anything smaller than a tree. She doesn't even remember using it in front of him, but he remembered.

Then he defused the whole situation in a way that left her with the upper hand while he walked away from a fight.

 _Maybe._

He is the only one who gave a shit whether she's being raped.

But none of that, Johanna has to admit, is really what's gotten her over on this couch. Honestly, it's because he acts like the intelligence she brings him is important, and she's a sucker for being taken seriously. Four is where she belongs.

A couple of hours later, Finnick wakes seamlessly at the sound of trumpets and Templesmith's announcement, and he focuses on the screen. Leaning over, Johanna fills him in on what he missed.

* * *

From that moment on, Johanna's hiding how raring to go she is. Move to Four, be part of something real, something happening, be with her people, never have to look like she's hot after Finnick again.

Impatiently, she watches Finnick and Mags grow increasingly excited over Katniss, winning and pulling her district partner out with her. Finnick finds Abernathy while the two victors are in the hospital, warning him of Snow's ire and passing on what details he knows of Snow's plans. Then the Victory Ball comes around, and not one of the former victors gets an invitation. It's unprecedented, and the grapevine is buzzing.

At midnight, Finnick shows up at Johanna's hotel door.

"I couldn't get in. Not with all my connections. That ball is _closed_. Orders of the President, it seems. I still haven't met Katniss."

"What the _fuck_ ," Johanna snarls.

Finnick shakes his head, agitated with the secrets he's carrying around and trying to put into words for her.

"Listen. I talked to Rudder. And Mags. They never agree on anything, but they agree on this. If you'd asked sooner...but it's too late. Rudder's going to be extremely busy with an engagement soon."

Finnick stares at her significantly. Johanna struggles to keep a neutral face when she takes in the meaning of his words. Rudder is head of the militia. It's coming to open combat soon!

"How soon?" she demands.

"By the end of the year. He's waiting to announce it until he's got everything ready for the big event."

"So I have to stay where I am?" All the more reason to have her in Four—there's going to be action! Johanna is dying of impatience.

Finnick continues to hold her gaze without blinking. "There is no one we would like to have more-" He mumbles the next word. "District Seven."

 _There's no one we'd like to have more from District Seven. There's no one we'd like to have more_ _in_ _District Seven._

Meaning they're counting on her to get the lumber to them.

Looking down at the plush red carpet of the hallway, biting her lip to keep from crying out in despondency, Johanna quickly races through the possibilities in her head.

 _It's a war. You don't always get to choose your job._

Fierce, Johanna looks up and meets Finnick's eyes again. He's on tenterhooks, waiting to see how she'll react.

"His loss." She winks deliberately. "I can make Seven as exciting as Four, just you watch."

 _I'll keep that lumber going south, come hell or high water. If I have to hijack a train and drive it myself._

Finnick's nervous expression breaks out into a relieved smile.

"Now, I can't do miracles on short notice, so don't expect much next Games. But don't be surprised if the Career pack's bigger in the future."

"You're an honorary Career as far as I'm concerned," Finnick tells her, and somehow he makes it, of all compliments she's ever received, the one she values the most. "I hope we're still on good terms?"

They can't let on that he's talking about alliances between their districts, so Johanna gets to respond in a way that she enjoys. "You're an arrogant, self-aggrandizing bastard who's far too sure of himself for his own good. But you haven't pissed me off the way you could have."

Finnick grins at her, even holding himself with the same tension that she feels. "Johanna, of all my connections here, you are by far the most promising."

"Flattery will get you everywhere." Johanna gives the words a heavy layer of mockery, but surprises herself by meaning them. It's so rare to find someone who appreciates her.

But something about the way he says "connections" sparks an itch in her brain. She stands there trying to scratch it as she watches him grow smaller and smaller while he walks away down the long hotel corridor. Then he turns the corner toward the elevator and disappears from sight.

She's begrudged every minute she's had to pretend interest in someone for the sake of getting something done. She's resented Finnick for putting her in that position, even when she started realizing how useful a game it is. She's reluctantly started acknowledging how much more he's getting done than she is because he doesn't hold back.

And two years ago, she gave him a one-week deadline to find her the pills she needed, using his "connections."

 _You idiot, how did you think he got his hands on those pills? Did you think they gave them to him for free?_

Johanna stands staring down the hall, stunned. _He didn't even hesitate._ Her heart clenches in awe and regret, but she never will go after Finnick. She has too much pride.

* * *

If a couple of these scenes seem familiar, it's because I moved the Johanna scenes during the 74th Hunger Games from _Mags' Weapon_ to _Mags' War_. Originally, _Mags' War_ was supposed to start with the Quarter Quell. Originally, _Mags' War_ was not supposed to be almost 300,000 words long.

I also feel I should mention that any comments in my fic on Johanna's appearance, especially ones where she's perceived as not particularly good-looking, have no bearing on Jena Malone. Jena looks nothing like the Johanna in my head (although she did such a good job portraying her that she is forever the voice and the facial expressions of Johanna for me-seriously, my favorite acting in the films, hands down).


	3. Chapter 3

Annie has a secret. Finnick knows most of her secrets, but he's been gone for months. She wants him to come home, but in a way, it's easier that he's not here right now, because he's the one she's keeping this one from.

She can't tell if Mags has guessed. It never does to underestimate Mags. Since losing her speech, she's been unable to communicate more than a fraction of what goes on in that shrewd old head.

If Finnick comes back and Mags has figured out Annie's secret and manages to communicate it...well, Annie will deal with that if it happens.

If Finnick doesn't come back...

The Seventy-Fourth Victory Ball was last night, and Annie's going to be on tenterhooks for the next few days. She's been watching television every day for months, gathering intelligence in her own way, and putting the pieces together as best she can. Maybe she can be the one who figures out in advance whether Finnick's going to be allowed home or not.

She hasn't seen any wedding announcements yet for Finnick. Just Katniss and Peeta. But even with them front and center, Finnick is so much on television that Annie's started to understand why his family considers him a disgrace. If you don't know what's driving him, that he's protecting his people and finding ways to fight back, he does look...feckless.

Annie barely recognizes him, and it's not the makeup. Watching Finnick simper and flit from one sparkly attraction to the next, nothing and no one able to hold his attention for long, is downright queasiness-inducing if you've only ever known him at his natural levels of intense focus. No wonder he comes home exhausted each year. This is one hell of an act.

 _Please come home._

She worries about Finnick. She wants to be the one he comes home to so he can catch his breath, not someone who makes even more demands on him. Which is why she's not telling anyone that her medication supplies have dried up due to conveniently timed shortages.

She was completely without her meds during the Hunger Games, when Mags and Finnick went to the Capitol to mentor tributes and Annie refused. Only a couple of months prior, she had made the trip in order to be by Mags' side in the hospital, but she won't—can't—go as part of the Hunger Games pageant.

Mags had warned her long ago, when she first came out of the arena, that there would be a price to pay for refusing to make her mandatory annual appearance in the Capitol, but since she jumped through all the hoops of high-profile events in which she featured, and since she doesn't need to mentor as long as Mags can do the job, she'll have a chance of flying under the radar if she makes it clear that her absence is due to illness, not defiance.

It's both.

The shortage during her Hunger Games was a warning. Annie could have gone to the Capitol for the Victory Ball and still been in compliance with the rules. Everyone else is there right now: Donn, Brine, Rudder, Octavius. It's only her and Mags in the Village today.

Annie thought about it. The Victory Ball is easier to tolerate than the Hunger Games, after all. At least no one dies, even if replays are everywhere.

She thought about it, but she can't.

She can't let them win. If she stays here, she has a chance of getting back on her feet, and of retaining some sense of integrity. Besides, someone has to be here for Mags. Even if she's got all the practical support she needs, Annie can't believe anyone remaining loves her as much as Annie.

Annie's been trying to go over to her house every day, and when she can't, Mags comes here. Annie still feels guilty that she can't move in with Mags, but the strain is too much to bear.

So instead of going to the Capitol, Annie started cutting her pills in half in the weeks leading up to the Victory Tour, to have at least something to get her through when the supplies dried up right on schedule. She's hoping her deliveries will resume again, the way they did last time, but if not, that's another problem she'll deal with.

Hopefully without Finnick finding out. Her medication is tightly controlled at the best of times, and three years ago Finnick tried bringing her a stash from the Capitol, but it was confiscated. Being Finnick, he got off with a slap on the wrist for a first offense, but she doesn't want him trying again.

"It's not an emergency," Annie insisted at the time. Better that he be free to collect the information he needs, without anyone suspecting what he's up to.

Now it's even more critical to keep him from taking this risk, now that he's facing Snow's displeasure already, and now that the revolution is on the verge of breaking out.

Annie insists to herself that keeping her secrets is a way of doing her part to support the revolution, even if she can't leave her house, even if she still can't leave her bed at mid-afternoon. _This is temporary,_ she keeps repeating. _I'll get my meds back. Then I can sleep. Then I can stop feeling like the world is ending and it'll be a relief when it finally does. I was doing better before all this happened, I was._

Her nightmares aren't just about the arena any more, or Peacekeepers raiding the house and dragging her back to the Capitol to dance to Snow's tune, or even about war. Last night, she dreamed of Mags, smothered in care until she deteriorated. With a whole district looking out for Mags' every need while the other victors are out of town, Annie's trying to help her hang on to her independence.

It's why she drags herself out of bed when she hears the front door open. Annie's not sure she can be sociable, but Mags will understand. Mags sat with her a few days ago, stroking her hair and letting Annie hang onto her other hand until at last her need for sleep overcame her dread of it. But Mags left before she woke, as Annie had made her promise to do. It's not falling asleep around other people that kills her. It's waking up to find she's not alone.

More noise from downstairs. The door closing. Annie's now sitting up in bed but hasn't even mustered the energy to push the blankets off her. She's still buried in a pile of quilts that are all she has to cling to.

Oh, god, she needs to get up. Mags is going to have a hell of a time on the stairs.

 _I can't do this._

Legs over the edge of the bed. Feet on the floor. House slippers. She can't sleep, but she can't get out of bed either. Just lie here all day hashing over everything that's gone wrong and is going to go wrong.

At the bottom of the stairs, Annie leans briefly against a rail and braces herself with her hand on an end table. She's just going to ask Mags if there's anything she needs, and if not, head straight back to bed. Yesterday she could go out. Today is not a functioning day.

She's still leaning against the wall, staring down at the ground, when a long shadow falls on the floor in front of her. She looks up.

"Finnick." Annie's voice is completely devoid of emotion.

"Annie." Finnick glows at her, but his smile slowly fades as he takes in her listlessness.

"You're home."

Is she losing her grip on time? The Victory Ball was—well, she thought it was recent enough that it wasn't possible for him to be back yet. Tomorrow at the earliest.

"I'm home," Finnick confirms. She can see him control his disappointment that she's having a bad day, but she can't do anything about that. "Everything's fine." He holds out a paper bag in one hand. "Found this on the porch."

All that time spent worrying that she wouldn't be able to keep her secrets from his eagle eye, and now the problem isn't revealing her relief at her pills, it's being too numb to feel anything at all.

When Annie stares at the bag without reaching for it, Finnick drops it on the the table. On the floor next to it, he sets something else down, a larger bag maybe, but her peripheral vision has gone all hazy. She can't pay attention to her surroundings.

Every time she tries to think of something to say, it spirals out of control in her head. If she says one thing, he might say any number of things in response that she can't predict, and then she'll have to think of something in turn that doesn't betray her secrets. The complexities of human interaction are more than she can handle today.

But he's Finnick, and even if she can't talk just now, she can read him. He's wondering if he should offer to leave, but he hasn't seen her in forever, and he wants to stay. She can't help him with that either, can't be socially polite and make this decision for him.

Making up his mind, Finnick walks into the kitchen. Annie follows, trying to hold it together. She wants to be kind to him, to give him a proper homecoming, to feel relieved that he's home at all, but the urge to be alone is overwhelming her. If she keeps having to fight it, she's going to end up curled into a ball, screaming.

Her hands, without her realizing it, have found their way to the paper bag, which she's clutching, rolled up, as she walks. Annie tries to set it down on the counter without letting him notice how she was clinging to it. He's a professional spy. He's probably noticing.

"Wait, this looks different." Finnick turns around in a circle in the middle of the kitchen. "Did you renovate while I was gone? Did you do this yourself?"

Annie just nods, too tired to elaborate. She felt better when she had something to tear out and pound on, but now she's only relieved that it might distract him from wondering about her meds.

"That's amazing!"

When he doesn't get the enthusiastic response he was looking for, Finnick tightens his lips and starts making sandwiches at the new granite-topped island. Flatbread, avocado, tomato, cheese. Annie stands with her hands clenched tight behind her and waits for him to get bored and leave on his own. She shakes her head minutely when he holds a sandwich out in offer.

"Are you sorry you had to come back?" Annie blurts out. Anything has to be better than coming home after this long to a girlfriend who acts like she didn't even miss you.

 _I did,_ she wants to say. _I just...can't, right now._

Finnick's hands fall to the table as though they don't have the strength to hold a sandwich any more. He turns to Annie with eyes full of pain and a face that looks as fatigued as she feels. "What happened? Did you start watching television?"

Startled, Annie looks away. This part's not even a _secret_ , but he's already lifted it from her mind like it was nothing. Next he'll be trading his body for her meds, and it'll be her fault when he's caught.

"Do you wish I'd come with you after all?" she asks. Her heart had broken with helplessness, watching him so utterly alone.

Finnick buries his face in his hands, leaning his elbows on the kitchen table. "No," he says, his voice muffled. "I've told you. I couldn't handle switching personalities back and forth that fast, if you were there. It just drives me crazy that there are so many good things in the Capitol, and you can't have any of them."

"So I don't have a monopoly on crazy. Good to know." She's pretty sure, on days like this, that the easiest thing for both of them would be if Finnick would just give up on her already. He needs someone less damaged, someone who can help him repair his own damage.

"Annie, I told you, I don't think you're crazy."

"What do you call it, then?" Annie challenges.

"Well." Finnick has to think about it. "You're suffering, definitely. But crazy...crazy to me would mean you didn't make sense. And the longer I've known you, the more I've realized that things that looked or sounded crazy have had good, sensible reasons, and that whatever you've done has kept you alive and on your feet. And you're still so brave it hurts to watch."

Maybe. Maybe she has reasons for the things she does to keep herself going, like living alone. But spending months agonizing over whether your boyfriend will come home and what kind of state he'll be in if so, and then completely ignoring him when he does? Making _him_ do the comforting, when you spent months fretting because he was dealing with his own problems alone? Having all the time in the world to come up with questions that will tell you how much of him really came back, and not being able to sit him down and ask them? That's the kind of crazy that scares her.

Unable to articulate any of this, Annie wanders off to the windowsill to play with some dying flowers in a vase. Keeping other things alive is so hard when it's all she can manage to do that for herself.

"If you want to see crazy, you should have seen Johanna and Brutus talking smack," Finnick laughs. It's the kind of friendly small talk that keeps the conversation non-threatening and open to whatever she might want to say, without pushing her. "I had to rescue him." She can hear the smile in his voice.

Annie's eyes fill with tears, and she blinks them back. _Wow,_ but she is volatile today. Finnick's doing his best, but nothing's going to get through to her right now.

"Finnick." Calm. Calm. Do calm. Do sane. "I know you don't care about getting hurt." Her voice shakes, but she ignores her pride and carries on, stringing together sentences that go with each other. "I know you volunteer at fourteen and cut yourself and paint your face with your own blood and run down archers. I know you'll stick it out here as long as it takes. But I care about being the one cutting you. I'm having a really bad day, and if you stay, you'll get hurt, and I'll have to be the one who cares about that." Throughout this entire speech, her back is turned to him.

Silence from behind. Then, "Promise?"

"I promise. I'll call as soon as I'm feeling better. I'll even come by if I'm up to it. We'll talk, we'll catch up, I'll steal your dessert, it'll be good. Promise."

Annie hears the front door close. She plucks the dried-out petals from the flowers and crumbles them into dust in her hand.

* * *

Two am. Two more hours of curfew.

Finnick's fingers tug restlessly at the sheets, pulling them up over his shoulders, then pushing them down again. _I should have spent the night at Mags'._

 _Dammit, how old are you? Twenty-four is a little old to be clingy, don't you think?_

One hour and fifty-nine minutes.

It's just so hard to believe he's home. Finnick shakes with relief every time he remembers how narrowly he escaped the Capitol. He didn't think he was going to— _still_ doesn't think he would have, if not for Katniss. But President Snow was too busy managing the fallout of her Hunger Games to worry about an impeccably well-behaved Finnick, and so when Finnick couldn't get into the ball, he slipped out of the Capitol in the middle of the night, holding his breath the whole way.

Now he's home, and he can't sleep.

One hour and fifty-eight minutes.

It was almost worth it, missing the ball. Now he'll be here when the revolution breaks out later this year. Everyone's decided that the time to strike is now, while the fury Katniss has been feeding in the other districts is still hot. Her Victory Tour was electrifying even after she stuck to the cards.

One hour and fifty-seven minutes.

But he aches so badly to help Katniss that the frustration is killing him. She's smart, she's brave, she's a warrior, and she protects her people. No one should have to navigate the waters she's in alone. Finnick did his best to communicate with Haymitch while she and the boy were in the hospital, but it wasn't enough.

It's never enough.

One hour and fifty-six minutes.

So he needs to not be wasting time here, and get down to the Career academy with Rudder, or take the ferry up to visit Pearleye, or basically anything that isn't lying in bed pretending he's going to fall asleep again. No, he needs to sleep, _now_ , so he can be useful later.

One hour and fifty-five minutes.

 _Just give up already. You slept on the train. You'll sleep when you've gotten some work done today._

One hour and fifty-four minutes.

But sleeping on the train train barely counts. It's always agitated, and full of violent dreams that leave him more tired than when he lay down. Now he's on alert, headachy, fuzzy, and frustrated with this stupid argument over whether he should try to sleep.

One hour and fifty-three minutes.

Finnick gets up and opens the window. He doesn't miss the smell of fish, exactly, but maybe if it smells and sounds like home, he'll be able to sleep.

One hour and fifty-two minutes.

The transition back to District Four is always hard.

One hour and fifty-one minutes.

Back in bed, Finnick clutches the pillow to his chest and hunches over, trying to decide what to do with himself.

He knows better than to hit the workout room down the hall in a mood like this, since he injured himself a few years back doing just that. But he can't get out of the Village, and that doesn't leave him many options.

One hour and fifty minutes.

 _You're exhausting Mags,_ Annie's voice says in his memory. _And it's exhausting me to try to deflect your intensity._

One hour and forty-nine minutes.

Mags is the furthest thing from fragile, but she needs all her strength to manage her recovery. _The last thing she needs is managing my frantic energy._ So he's going to stick it out here and sleep alone. Or not sleep, as the case may be.

One hour and forty-eight minutes.

He wraps his hand into a fist when he realizes he's been picking at the bottom sheet enough to dislodge it from the corner at the foot of his bed.

 _It's two fucking more hours,_ Finnick growls at himself. _Then you can get out and work yourself to your heart's content, and maybe sleep tonight. Or tomorrow night._

With this decision made, Finnick forces himself to lie down. _Pillow under the head_ , he tells himself firmly, _where it belongs._

One hour and forty-seven minutes.

There's going to be no shortage of problems to solve. He needs to transfer the information he's collected, and they need to work out a plan for bringing the decades of planning to open warfare. It's going to be the most intense year of his life. No wonder he can't sleep. It has nothing to do with Annie not wanting to see him earlier. He's used to that. It's just one of her bad days.

 _She doesn't need you to drop in in the middle of the night, and neither does Mags._

Just one hour and forty-six minutes left.

Finnick's thumb curls suddenly around the handle of the knife under his pillow before he realizes why. He freezes, until he hears the sounds downstairs. Then he creeps to his bedroom door on silent feet and listens. Not Mags: her cane is distinctive. Annie never comes by without warning, no matter how much he encourages her to. Peacekeepers? An assassin?

He keeps a trident hanging on the wall, next to other mementos of his Games. It looks like conceit, but it's meant for moments like this.

With the country teetering on the edge of revolution, Finnick's done his best to go unnoticed in connection with resistance, but he can't risk letting himself be certain that he's succeeded and will never be a target. If he has to flee tonight, he has a plan to alert the others.

Just as he's getting into position, weapon in hand and ears pricked for numbers and location of his enemy, Finnick's heart leaps in his chest at the sound of a voice. "Um. I just realized this might count as sneaking up on you?"

All at once, the tension flows out of him, and the butt of his trident thuds as it hits the floor. "For the love of—Annie, you scared me half to death!" He strides out of the room.

"I'm sorry!" She sounds sheepish, but also genuinely amused. "I didn't even know if you were home, and then it occurred to me I might have woken you up, and-"

Finnick hits the switch to the stair light, and squints down into the sudden brightness. Annie's standing at the bottom of the stairs, carrying an expensive shopping bag by the handles. She holds it up to show him. "You forgot this."

"Oh, Annie." He flies down the stairs to her.

"Finnick." Annie opens up her arms, and Finnick falls into them. Even the aborted adrenaline rush vanishes into the comfort of her touch. "I'm sorry."

" _I'm_ sorry," he says. "So you found it?"

"You brought me a fur coat from the Capitol," Annie accuses. "And I kicked you out."

"I didn't mean to leave it lying around for you to find. I meant, you know..." Finnick sighs. He'd completely forgotten about it. "Well, the important thing is, do you like it? Have you tried it on?" Eagerly, he begins pulling it from the bag.

Annie takes the other end and helps him pull it out. "Yes, of course, and no, I was waiting for you."

Finnick shakes it out and gets it into position for Annie to step into. She slides her arms through the sleeves, and together they fasten it up the front.

She does a pirouette with her arms held out, standing in his hallway at the bottom of the stairs in the middle of the night. "I look gorgeous in it, naturally."

Finnick's heart surges with love and pride, and he leans over to brush her forehead with his lips. More than the coat, she's trying on self-confidence in front of someone who won't laugh at her. Someone who's shown her that it's possible to say things like this.

 _If you believe in yourself enough, who is going to dare not to believe in you?_

While straightening back up, he notices a patch of fur that's stiff and matted, as though it got wet in transit. Finnick tries surreptitiously to pinch it with his thumb and forefinger to smooth it out, wondering how on earth he managed to give her something in less than perfect condition, but Annie notices. She looks sheepish again.

"I, ah, I might have cried myself to sleep into it when I found it, and slept like the dead on it."

The very fact that she can make admissions like this so straightforwardly means that some part of her, no matter what she says, believes him when he says he doesn't think she's crazy.

"But you woke up feeling better?" Finnick asks, somewhat rhetorically. It was not twenty-four hours ago that she kicked him out, as she put it.

Annie nods. "I took my meds and slept...I don't know how long."

It's amazing, the difference between her good days and her bad days. She won't be sailing around without a care in the world on any of them, but when she's playful, warm, and self-assured like this, he lets himself pretend that all will be well with the world forever.

"Then it must be a magical coat," Finnick jokes, and he's rewarded by her whole face lighting up with laughter.

"It must be." She spreads her hands over it possessively. "My talisman. I'll keep it with me always."

Then she holds up her arms to him, and Finnick picks her up and spins her around, laughing with her. This, this is what he'd imagined when he decided to bring her a gift.

Her eyes are sparkling. "So, do I get to thank you properly?"

At once, Finnick's world slips. He finds himself reacting in two different directions at once. "I'd love to," he says with his automatic smile, while desperately trying to quell the impending freakout. _She's not paying for it!_ he tells himself fiercely. _This isn't the Capitol!_

He tries his hardest not to think of Annie when he's in the Capitol, because sincerity will break his persona. But this year he found himself looking at furs and thinking of her, and suddenly he couldn't stand it any more. He walked out carrying this one like spoils of war. It was free, because he's a celebrity and he can get whatever luxury item he wants, just for the asking. But looked at another way, it's the most expensive fur coat in the world.

Not letting any of his internal turmoil show, Finnick follows Annie upstairs. She shivers as soon as she opens the door, and laughs. "Mind if I close the window? It's a little chilly for what I have in mind."

Finnick gives her his best dazzling smile. "I don't think I'll need it any more," he tells her, hoping he's right.

Annie wearing only the fur coat is stunning to his eyes, and nothing at all like the Capitol. Any of his lovers, male or female, would have resorted to vomiting, pills, and surgery before they let themselves get fat like this. He gives her a good, long, appreciative look, taking in the differences since he last saw her. More weight, yes, especially on the thighs, and also what looks like some extra muscle on the upper arms. He curves his hand around her arm. "Renovating?"

"Yes." She looks down at where his hand rests, pleased. "Is it noticeable, really?"

"To me. Renovating and eating well."

It helps, but it doesn't entirely make him comfortable with giving her a luxury object and immediately following up the gift with sex. So when he's too tired and stressed to get it up right away, Finnick decides that it's for the best. No chance she's paying for anything if it's just him pleasuring her.

But Annie, being Annie, stops him as he's going down on her. "Finnick-" she warns.

Finnick doesn't even need to ask what she's getting at. He just sighs. "It's fine."

Then, when he doesn't stop, Annie insists, "No, seriously, you spent the last six months-"

"You do it for me all the time," he reminds her. Honestly, it's easier this way, though he doesn't like to admit it. "Besides, you look gorgeous, remember?" With a seductive smile, Finnick runs his hands over the light brown of the coat and the richer brown of her hair spread over it.

Annie's having none of it. "But it's not _my_ comfort zone," she says conclusively.

So much for not admitting it. Finnick exhales through his teeth in frustration at himself. "Annie, I brought you the fur after years of not bringing you anything, because I am tired of them being able to get in the way of us enjoying ourselves. I am tired of avoiding anything that might bring up memories of them. I just want to have one relationship that _isn't_ about how I spent the last six months."

"I know," Annie says, and she sighs unhappily. "And I know what you mean about avoiding things. Sometimes I catch myself second-guessing whether I'm reminding you of something you'd rather forget. " Looking at her, Finnick can see the strain, and suddenly it's obvious. If she had that bad a day yesterday, she's not fully recovered today. She's making the effort for him. "But we do," she continues more confidently, "we have a relationship, and we certainly don't have to straighten everything out tonight. Look, you gave me a fur coat, and it's only your first night back. Stop trying to solve everything at once!"

Finnick laughs hollowly, because needing to solve everything at once is exactly why he can't slow down.

"You're right, I've let you before, and I'll let you again," Annie promises. "Just not tonight, while you're still half in the Capitol." Her hands tug at him, asking him to come lie beside her.

Finnick doesn't know how she can tell, but he follows her down onto the bed and lies on his side, facing her. "I just wanted to do something nice for you. And at least I decided not to force a reaction out of myself when I was wound up. I thought you'd prefer that."

"I didn't realize you were wound up," Annie says quietly. "You were..." Her voice trails off.

 _Of course I was. It's what I do. If you're interested, I'm available._

Annie puts her hand on his bare shoulder and runs it up to his hair and back down again.

"I'm sorry. I should have guessed, even if I didn't notice. But at the same time," she chides, "you should have told me. Honesty, remember?"

"There's honesty, and then there's-do you actually think I'm too messed up to make decisions about sex?" Finnick demands, his voice rising. "That you have to protect me from myself?"

Annie holds out a placating hand. "No, I-"

"Because we've been over this," Finnick continues, overriding her, "and I told you, as long as we're in this together, I won't feel like you're using me."

"I'm not, but I'm starting to think that you are."

Finnick springs up in bed, on the verge of tears. "You think I'm using you for sex?!"

"No!" Annie sits up with him and insists that he come back into her arms. "Idiot." She kisses him affectionately on the temple, and Finnick feels his pounding pulse slowly come under control again. For a moment, he thought the world was ending and he never even saw it coming. "I feel like you're using _yourself_ ," Annie explains. "You figure out what I want, you make sure I get it, the end."

Now Finnick's more lost than ever. "Isn't that what everyone decent does? Isn't it what you do?"

Annie shakes her head. Her long hair brushes his skin as it swings, and he leans in, desperate for some kind of comfort. "Not the way you do it."

"Well, I don't know any other way!" This is turning out to be the most frustrating sexual exchange they've had. Then he tries to salvage the moment with laughter. "I must say, I've never gotten this many complaints in bed before."

Sometimes Annie laughs with him, but just now she's all seriousness. "No, I don't suppose you have," she says sadly. Then she smiles. "Good thing you're with me. We'll sort it out, not to worry."

Finnick wants to believe her, but sorting this out is tiring, hard, and confusing. "You just tell me, then. Whatever will make you comfortable with this." Finnick hesitates over the next part, because it's so hard to keep from sounding petulant. "As long as you know I actually want to be here with you, and I'm not just doing it out of some habit, or because I do it with everyone, or whatever it is you're thinking-"

"No, I know, sssh." Annie rubs his arm. "It's really obvious, okay?"

Under her assurances, the defensiveness starts to relent, and Finnick lets her coax him back into lying down.

"Now come be little spoon and let me hold you. I know that's your favorite. You're a sweet boy, and I know you wanted to do something nice for me. It's just that tonight, it's your turn to let me take care of you."

Maybe he is still half in the trenches, because as he's obligingly getting into position, he hears the words "sweet boy" and suddenly he's back in Flavia's arms, with pleasure reverberating throughout his body. The same pleasure he couldn't summon at the sight of Annie's skin just now. Sex doesn't disgust him, but sometimes he disgusts himself.

Finnick shakes himself. _Stop it, it's just the transition. It'll pass. It always does._

Instead, he jokes off the discomfort. "Annie, I might manage to be the inside spoon, but I think little is out of my control."

Annie laughs politely, but she's like a bloodhound tonight. "That wasn't a good shiver just now."

Finnick doesn't want to lie to her to make her feel better, even if he thought it would work, but some conversations are just exhausting. He simply shakes his head, and Annie takes the hint.

"All right, we're taking this one step at a time. You're back home, you're where you belong. Everything will start getting better now." Her fingers stroke his hair with each reassurance, but there have been too many echoes tonight, one right after another, for him to be fully sure of where he is.

"Annie?" Finnick asks, his back to her. "Say something only you would say?"

"Oh." Annie hesitates. Of course. She probably thought she was. "Um...I built a ramp for Mags? Up her front porch?"

The answer startles a laugh out of Finnick. Not at all what he was expecting, but she went for a surefire choice. And it does make him feel better, to imagine them looking out for each other while he was away. "I saw," he says warmly. "She was very happy about it."

"District Four is the best place in Panem. Way better than the Capitol!" Annie continues, gaining momentum. "And I love the smell of fish in the morning."

Now Finnick's belly-laughing, from relief more than anything. He feels a rush of gratitude toward Annie, who knows how he constructs his wards out of humor. "Thanks. You've convinced me."

The sound Annie makes is self-satisfied. Then she grows very quiet. "Do you really get that all the time, all the things I was saying earlier?"

Finnick debates whether he should let the whole topic slide, but he finally blurts out, "I know you think it's all rape and blood, but I told you, I enjoy it." Half his lovers are completely besotted with his celebrity persona, and they're not deliberately cruel, just oblivious. "Some of them are just trying to get their money's worth, sure, and possession's all they're after, but a lot of them are trying to be kind. They just don't know how. Would you rather not have known that?"

"No," Annie says at once. "Honesty, I told you. And I'm glad it's not all misery. I just wish...you said none of it was real. That what you 'enjoy' is not them or even the sex, but the ego trip."

"Yes," Finnick answers, "that's still the case." He's not having the sex because he enjoys it, he's enjoying the sex because he has to have it. "But I tell them it's real. And they believe me, just like you believe me."

"I believe you," Annie says stubbornly. "You can't drive me away that easily. And speaking of which, I'm sorry I was so out of it yesterday. I know you never want to be alone when you get home."

Finnick feels like apologizing too. He knows that's why she dragged herself over here the moment she felt even a little bit better. Not because she doesn't want to be here, but because she does, and it's hard, and he wishes he could help more. He wishes he could have stayed yesterday, wishes his presence made more of a difference.

"And I'm sorry I had to move out when we were living with Mags," Annie continues, following Finnick's train of thought with eerie accuracy.

"You can't sleep if there's anyone in the house?" Finnick echoes. He's heard the explanation a hundred times, but he needs to hear it again. He needs the reminder that it's not something he's doing or should be doing. Otherwise, the _Why don't you feel safe with me?_ gets more and more insistent in his mind. _I'm hardly ever home and that's_ _still_ _more of me than you can handle?_

Annie gives him the explanation again. Her arms tighten hard around him, and Finnick can tell she feels as horrible about this as he does. "I wish I could. I wish you could hold me during my worst episodes. I wish I didn't have these abrupt mood swings where sometimes I need you close and sometimes I feel like I need to be alone or I'll die. But if I wake up and I'm not alone, I've got stories in my head about why before I even know what's real."

Finnick takes a deep breath. He's tried so hard to come up with a way that they could make this work, ever since she first told him. He's still trying. But he's got nothing. No solution. And so he had to let her go.

"It's not you. I tried again, when you were in the Capitol and Mags was alone, and I couldn't stay very long before I broke down again.

"But you're still family," Annie says firmly, directly into his ear. "So is Mags. You two didn't stop being family when you moved out at fourteen."

Finnick's not sure whether it would be worse if Annie could live with him but didn't want to, but it doesn't matter. She does and she can't.

Annie's mouth brushes his ear, then the side of his neck, nuzzling her reassurance home. Finnick's too tired to find it arousing, but that's a sensitive spot and always will be. "Let me hold you?" he asks.

"Sure." Annie opens her arms and lets him turn over so they're facing each other. Wrapped in his arms, she tucks her head under his chin and kisses the base of his throat. Another sensitive spot.

"There's so much to do," Finnick sighs. But it's getting harder to remember what. The exhaustion is hitting him like a sledgehammer now that Annie's gotten him into a place where he can allow himself to feel it instead of fighting it. "So many problems to solve, and I'm lying around in bed."

"Oh, that again," Annie says knowingly. "Well, my problem is that I missed you, and so you're going to stay right here."

 _Oh, Annie._ She knows him better than anyone. All he needs is a reason to stay. It may not put him to sleep, but it makes the sleeplessness infinitely more bearable.

Finnick wants to kiss her back, but his body is too heavy to move. "I can't sleep," he groans.

"You don't have to sleep," Annie promises, pouring a calm assurance over him. "You don't have to do anything except lie here with me. There's nothing to do, nowhere to go."

All right. He just has to last another hour, and then curfew ends.

Finnick opens his eyes, which he doesn't remember closing, to tell Annie...what was it again? Struggling to remember, he mumbles something that might be, "Why is there a fur coat draped over me?"

Annie's smile is as bright as the sun glinting off her hair. "Because it's magical. Go back to sleep," she whispers. "All's well."

"Was I sleeping?" Finnick tries to ask. He never hears her answer.

 _All's well._


End file.
